


Coffee

by ditsypersephone



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-04
Updated: 2016-08-04
Packaged: 2018-07-29 09:08:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 8
Words: 9,159
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7678489
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ditsypersephone/pseuds/ditsypersephone
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After John moves out to go live with Mary, Sherlock begins to randomly turn up at Molly's flat and more or less ends up living there. Written before Series 2 aired, it ignores all events from there.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is the very first BBC Sherlock fanfiction I wrote and it was in response to the following prompt on the kinkmeme on livejournal:
> 
> "After John moves out to go live with Mary (his future canon wife, FYI) Sherlock begins to randomly turn up in Molly's apartment. At first he passes it off as merely needing to steal her food/tea, but eventually his stuff starts migrating over and then he's all "My flat? 221b is my laboratory, now. See, Toby's on top of the Union Jack pillow and everything. I totally live here now." Molly's reaction is entirely up to you."
> 
>  
> 
> I wrote this in 2010/2011, first posted on LJ. Since this was before Series 2 aired, it entirely ignores any events after Series 1. I've made small edits but story-wise is still the same as when I first posted it. (It's also on ffnet). As I'm very fond of this story (maybe because it is my first), I wanted to archive it here. 
> 
> I hope you like it because it's very special to me.

He just showed up at her flat one day, asking if he could have a cup of coffee.

Molly didn't think much about it. _Well_ , that was a lie. She _did_ think about it. Too much, in fact.

Why was he here? Sherlock had been over before – and she was very sure one time he'd been over without her being here. But that had been business – "Jim" business – so she hadn't felt too violated by that. Embarrassed, yes. It'd been the day her underwear drawer had decided to disintegrate – knickers and bras in all shapes and sizes lying on the floor – and she had to leave quickly because she was running late for work.

She _did_ have a fantastic coffee maker - a gift for her thirty-fifth – but there were loads of coffee shops between his flat and hers. And she couldn't really believe that Sherlock was too cheap to buy one, considering he probably took a taxi to get to hers.

She discounted the need for company, too. With her rather silly crush being replaced over the years with an exasperated affection for the man, she'd accepted that Sherlock wasn't going to wake up one morning and realise that he burned for her. A girl could dream, of course, but Molly was hardly a girl anymore.

It _could_ be a case but he had John for that. If he required her involvement he came to St. Bart's. Then again, John was a married man nowadays so he probably didn't have as much time for Sherlock as he used to.

Still pondering why Sherlock was visiting her, she was feeling rather unsettled as she returned to her sitting room with two mugs of coffee. He was petting Toby – her cat had settled on Sherlock's lap, looking quite smug – and Molly had the stray thought that he would make a rather fascinating Bond villain.

She handed him a mug. His lips quirked up with what he presumably considered a smile but Molly associated with a request for a body part or lab equipment. Whatever it was that he wanted from her, it had to be something huge and would probably get her into trouble. _Again_. This was the conclusion she came to.

He took a sip of the beverage and genuinely smiled. Molly took one herself and thought, not for the first time, 'God this is bloody good coffee'.

Deciding to tackle the bull by the horns, Molly asked "Why are you here?"

It had been a long shift and all she wanted to do was take a long, soothing bath and then go to bed. She wasn't in the mood for fake-flirty Sherlock. She almost always ended up doing what he asked anyway and his act was becoming more annoying than amusing, really. Her directness clearly startled him and she liked that. He didn't respond for a good minute or so. She took another sip from her coffee, to keep herself from blurting out something incredibly awkward.

When he finally responded, that 'I want something from you' smile was plastered on his face again. "Just thought to stop by and say hello."

He could have said "Molly, I need to saw off your arm to see how long it takes for a thirty-five year old woman of your size and build to pass out from the blood loss" and she would have been more comfortable with that reply. All she managed was a "Really?" laced with so much scepticism that even Sherlock noticed, judging by the flustered look. At least she thought that was how flustered looked on him.

"Isn't that what friends do?" The way he said it sparked a rather fantastical idea in Molly's head.

'It couldn't be, could it?' she thought, looking at him like a rather unusual stomach content at an autopsy. When he started on what was possibly the most awkward small talk Molly's ever had in her life – and she was the duchess of awkward small talk – she slowly began to believe that her suspicions were correct. How Sherlock managed to make the topic of weather – the staple of non-talk – so horribly stilted amused Molly. _She_ wasn't the one out of depth here.

As bizarre as it seemed, Sherlock was here for company.

She decided to take them both out of their collective misery and asked, "Took any new cases lately? Saw one on the website about a possible poisoning."

She spent the next three hours listening to Sherlock talk – about the case and then other topics – with her interjecting with questions, observations or a yawn.

He ended his stream of words quite abruptly with "I need to have a think now" and lied down on the couch.

By then, Molly was too tired to object or say anything and just staggered off to bed. The last little thought she had before drifting off to sleep was 'Never thought I'd have Sherlock spending the night.'

* * *

 

He was gone when she woke up, the only trace of him ever being there the coffee mug and the faint smell of him on the pillows.

The next time she saw him was two days later at St. Bart's. He told her how he solved the poisoning case and asked for a liver from a forty to forty-five year old male.

He also complimented her couch as being 'quite comfortable'. Molly only stammered a bemused "Thank you", so certain she'd been that he'd never mention the incident again and that it would be the closest thing she'd ever get to having a one night stand with Sherlock.

However, his visits to her flat became more frequent after that, though she could not determine any pattern as he popped up at random days and unusual hours.

Sometimes they discussed a case, sometimes he just laid there on her couch.

The first time she caught him in her flat – either he'd picked her lock or he'd duplicated her key – she was honestly more surprised to see him in her kitchen eating the left-over Chinese than by the invasion of her home. Instead of being angry at the intrusion – she suspected that he'd been sneaking into her flat for weeks now – she was just really amused by seeing him stuff his face with fried rice and chicken. She laughed – a real belly laugh – and Sherlock's rather perplexed and annoyed face made her laugh even more.

Later, when she'd calmed down, lying in her bed, with Sherlock on the couch – Toby had made it the habit of curling up at his feet and he seemed to tolerate it – it occurred to Molly that the laughter had probably been more hysteria than mirth.

Sherlock Holmes was slowly invading her personal space. On the one hand, she resented it. This was _her_ home and it was up to her to say who could or couldn't be there. On the other hand, the strange friendship they were building was rather nice. _Not_ because he was Sherlock and she still did like him in that way – a tiny part of her brain traitorously whispered that proximity fostered opportunity – but because she actually enjoyed listening to him talk about cases. She was finally comfortable enough to interact with him as a competent scientist and he'd listened to her input and had followed her suggestions a few times.

Her home felt less empty with Sherlock around and she couldn't not like that.

Still, he did not have the right to just come and go as he pleased!

* * *

 

Yet, she did not say anything the next day. Or a few days later, when something arrived in the post for Sherlock. Or when a union jack pillow appeared on her couch. Or when she noticed she kept running out of coffee and tea and her left-overs kept being eaten. Or when Mycroft started sending her texts. Or when John started calling her to ask where Sherlock was.

It was when she found a spare set of clothes in her wardrobe – the underwear was the final straw - that she decided to confront him.

Unfortunately, she was not sure if he was going to make an appearance that night – she sent a text with no reply. She waited for him in the sitting room anyway.

He'd given up the courtesy of ringing the doorbell when he knew she was in. He simply opened the door with his key – he _had_ duplicated one – and went straight for the couch. His surprised look was comical – she'd have laughed if she hadn't been so angry. He clearly had not expected her to be sitting in the middle of the couch, his clothes neatly folded next to her.

"Why are you still up?" he asked and Molly's irritation doubled.

"What is this, Sherlock?" she asked, pointing at the clothes.

He frowned, "Clothes."

"Clothes," she repeated, hearing a shrill in her voice.

" _My_ clothes, to be precise," he added.

"Your clothes," she repeated again, definitely with a note of hysteria.

"It occurred to me that I should bring some of my personal things over. Considering," he elaborated.

Molly did not know how to react to that. She was very sure that if she did not take a minute to calm down, she'd have the very first screaming argument in her life.

She tried, she really did, but the first thing that came out of her mouth was, "Considering? Considering what, Sherlock? Considering what?"

"That I sleep here," he answered, matter-of-factly.

"You don't sleep here!"

"Yes, I do."

"No, you don't."

"I sleep on your couch."

"Not every day!"

"I don't sleep every day."

Molly did not know what to say to that. She tried again. "This is _my_ flat, Sherlock."

"Yes. I know."

" _You_ don't live here."

"Not officially, no."

"Not _officially_?"

"I do spend all my free time here."

"All you do is come here, drink my coffee, eat my food, play with my cat, talk for hours if you're in the mood and then sleep on the couch with Toby!"

"I've also taken a few showers."

Her very unhelpful brain made her very aware that Sherlock had been naked in her flat – behind closed doors – but still naked. And she'd been naked in the same space.

"You don't live here!"

"You say that as if you don't enjoy the company."

"That is not the point."

"So you do enjoy my company."

She glared at him, "Don't distract me, Sherlock."

"Look Molly, I thought that living together was beneficial to both of us."

"We are not living together."

Of course Sherlock simply ignored her. "You get the benefit of my company. I get a place to sleep where it's nice and quiet."

Benefit of his company? What did he think she was? A desperate old spinster? "We don't live together!" she really shouted this time.

Sherlock merely shrugged his shoulders, "Not officially, no. But isn't that what friends do?"

"What?" It suddenly dawned on Molly that Sherlock wasn't being deliberately obtuse.

"You know, stay at each other's places?"

"No. That's what people who are in a relationship do. And we are not staying at each other's places. You are staying at mine."

"Friendship isn't a relationship?"

He couldn't be serious, could he? "Well, yes but…no…you have your own place."

"Yes, but that's for work."

It was then that Molly realised that Sherlock was covered in dust. And there was a dark shadow on his cheek that looked like a bruise.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still not sorry about the Chuck Norris line.

"What happened to you?" she gestured towards the torn sleeve on his jacket, one she'd never seen before. The errant thought of 'Thank god it's not the coat' popped into her head.

He looked down at himself, then back at Molly and grinned and then winced, touching his cheek, "Fight. Abandoned building. I won."

"Good for you," she said distractedly, already assessing the visible injuries and thinking of what else might be hurt.

She told him to sit down on the couch and take off his jacket. She opened his shirt and saw a reddish mark near his collarbone. That would turn into a nasty bruise in the next few hours. Using her hands, she inspected Sherlock for any other injuries. As gentle as she tried to be, he flinched when she ran her fingers over his ribcage.

"What hit you?" she asked.

"Roundhouse kick."

"Were you fighting Chuck Norris?"

"What?"

"Never mind. Anyway, doesn't seem like anything's broken but just to be sure we'll get an X-ray later."

"Go take a shower and I'll make some tea."

"John used to say that. Then he'd give me a lecture."

"I'll save my breath on the lecture. You're going to ignore it anyway."

He looked like a five-year old boy grinning at her.

* * *

 

After his shower – he was wearing boxer shorts and a blue robe Molly had no idea of where it came from – he immediately settled on the couch. Molly had put the clothes back in her wardrobe as Toby had made a nest with them. It seemed a shame to have such a beautiful suit covered in cat hair.

He took the tea and painkillers she offered and the ice packs. She sat down in the chair opposite him. _Her_ chair. He closed his eyes. They were quiet for a while. And if she didn't know better, she'd have thought that Sherlock had drifted off to sleep.

Once again, Sherlock had distracted her from something really important. She made another attempt. "Look, I understand that you miss John."

"I don't miss John. I see him nearly every day" was the instant reply. Too instant.

She looked at the supine figure, all elegant lines and angles, and bits of her heart ached for him. "Yes, but it's not the same, is it?"  There was no response but she hadn't expected one anyway.

She really didn't like the look of that bruise on his cheek and remembered that she meant to get something for that earlier. When she came back, his eyes were open and he was staring at the ceiling. She stood over him, looking down, "Here, put this on your cheek."

His focus shifted to her, "You do it."

She knelt down in front and he tilted his face so she could have better access. She gently smoothed the salve over his cheek - she was surprised that he was letting her do this. She went over the conversation earlier.

"Look, it's really not that I don't enjoy your company…" she started, wondering why she was whispering.

He was staring at her now, she'd forgotten how unnerving that could be. She leaned back, sitting down on her calves. 'You can do this, Molly' a tiny voice in her head encouraged.

"I just don't know what this is…and I don't want you to get any ideas…" she said to him, forcing herself to look into his eyes. They were just too intense for her own good.

"Rest assured that I have no interest in sex," he said, "with anyone."

That thought hadn't even occurred to Molly before, "I wasn't thinking about sex."

He raised an eyebrow, "Really? You have never thought about having sex with me?"

"Well…" Okay, maybe the thought had popped into her head once or twice.

"Not that I blame you," he added, "It's a very natural thing to do."

Molly shook her head, "God, you're bloody arrogant, aren't you?"

"Look, I know that you are attracted to me…"

"You know what? I've never been as unattracted to you as I'm right this moment."

"I know you have a crush on me…and unnattracted is not a word."

She rolled her eyes in exasperation. "Being around you for the past few years has cured me of that."

"So you don't like me in that way anymore? Because I have seen the way you look at me…"

"You're impossible, Sherlock." Molly walked out of the room.

The last thing she heard before closing her bedroom door was Toby's meow and Sherlock's "Not there, old chap."

* * *

 

That he'd still be there in the morning was unexpected. But there he was, sound asleep. She could tell the difference now.

She took a shower, then quietly prepared Toby and herself some breakfast. She usually ate it in the sitting room, watching the morning news, but she didn't want to wake Sherlock, so sat at the tiny table in the kitchen, eating her porridge, staring out of the small window. It looked to be another gloomy November morning.

Lost in her thoughts planning her day – she had the afternoon shift but she needed to do some shopping before that – she didn't notice Sherlock in the room until he sat down opposite of her at the table. She shrieked in surprise, which made Toby run out of the room in fright.

"Good morning," Sherlock simply said.

"I hate you," Molly muttered.

"You're not the first one," Sherlock replied.

Again, her heart twitched at the sad note in his voice – she was sure Sherlock was unaware of it. But she was still a bit miffed at him for several things so she ignored the first instinct of apologising. Instead, she got up, placed her dishes in the sink, told Sherlock to be at St. Bart's around three for the X-ray and finished getting ready for the day.

When she left her flat to run her errands, Sherlock was back on the couch.

* * *

 

She kept thinking through that day that she should have a proper adult conversation with Sherlock about the situation they were in – the situation Sherlock had put her in – and she kept thinking that for weeks and weeks.

But somehow she never really got around to it. Not because Sherlock had decided to disappear – his presence at her flat remained the same – or because she was too afraid to confront him – because she wasn't anymore. That wasn't entirely true, of course. She hated the logical way Sherlock could turn an argument in his favour – the several attempts she'd made had the exact same conclusion of him saying something and her being distracted by the thought that they eventually ended up discussing something entirely different.

After all, this was how she ended up being in this mess to begin with.

Eventually, Molly simply gave up and decided that whatever the situation was, she didn't truly mind. Why ruin a good thing?

Mycroft had been the key factor in her decision. He'd shown up at the hospital one night and had a 'conversation' with her. He had offered to 'speak' to Sherlock about 'sleeping' at her flat and explaining to him how 'inappropriate' it was. Something about the way Mycroft spoke to her made Molly realise that she couldn't be bothered by thoughts like that anymore.

Sherlock was her friend and friends spent time together. Sometimes friends slept at each other's flats. They were adults. There was nothing special or truly unusual about their particular arrangement. Unexpected – yes. Uninvited- definitely.

But this was Sherlock and did Molly really think he'd do anything like the rest of the ordinary people?

* * *

 

She bought Sherlock a new pair of expensive leather gloves for his birthday. He'd lost his old ones a week before during a case.

He put them on and a rather astonished "They fit perfectly" came out of his mouth.

"Of course they do," Molly replied, taking pleasure from Sherlock's reaction.

"Thank you," he said, low and slow and the way he was looking at Molly made her feel exactly like she did all this years ago when they'd first met.

They went for dinner on her birthday - she'd been gobsmacked when he accepted her very tentative suggestion. She thought that John and Mary would be there too, but it ended up just the two of them. He ordered a bottle of expensive champagne – of which he only had a glass and Molly had the rest.

By the end of the evening, Molly was quite certain that she was well and properly shit-faced and couldn't care less.

When they got home, Molly insisted that they should eat some of the left-over birthday cake she had in the fridge. Never mind that she already had two desserts – she ended up eating Sherlock's as well. They were sitting on the couch – Sherlock's couch as Molly referred to it now, him having truly and well claimed it – with coffee – espressos, Sherlock had insisted that she'd have at least two – and chocolate cake.

She was licking some fudge off her fingers, when a question occurred to her. "Just satisfy my curiosity," she said, looking over at Sherlock.

Did he look alarmed? She could not tell. "I just always…kind of…wanted to know…" she continued, wondering why Sherlock was getting nearer then realising she was leaning towards him. She put the plate with the cake down, afraid she was going to drop it. Or drop her face in it.

"Do you…have you…ever…" she concentrated on her thought and then yawned. Distracted by this, she caught sight of the reflection of her sitting room in the windows and thought 'Christ, there's a lot of pink in here.'

Sherlock was holding her shoulders now and she looked up at him in surprise, having forgotten that he was there in the room, though thinking how stupid that was since she clearly could see him in the reflection.

"I think it's time for bed," he said and Molly remembered her thought.

"Yes, bed!" she exclaimed, beaming at him. "Sex!"

"I beg your pardon?"

The tone of his voice made Molly go over her last few words. "There wasn't a complete sentence, was there?" she asked.

Sherlock simply glared at her. She really wanted to kiss him right now. "I meant to ask if you ever think about sex?"

"Sex," stony look, no inflection in his voice.

Molly nodded, "Yes. Sex…ual intercourse sex."

There was a minute or so of silence and she could actually hear the ticking of the watch she was wearing.

His brows furrowed, he finally said, "Listen, Molly…I think you are a reasonably attractive person but I'm simply not…"

"Don't be disgusting, Sherlock! I don't want to have sex with you!" she said, wondering why she was speaking so loudly.

"You don't?"

"No. No. No no no no. No. Not like this. I know it's my birthday but no…no…no no…no. But thank you."

"What?"

"Hm?"

"Molly, you're drunk."

"No shit, Sherlock."

"At least you're a happy drunk."

"The crying comes later."

"I think it's really time for bed now, Molly."

"Okay."

* * *

 

He helped her get up and guided her towards the bedroom. Seeing her bed, she giddily flopped face down on it, kicking off the heels she was still wearing. She heard something crash but decided to ignore it. Her bed was just too soft and cosy and nice for her to care anymore.

Besides, everything seemed to be spinning at the moment so she couldn't really be bothered to move.

She felt Sherlock sit down next to her, his weight making the mattress shift and her roll over a bit.

"Here, take this," she heard him say and cracked open an eye. He was holding a glass of something fizzy towards her.

"Eeeurrrgh…" was all she managed, unwilling to move. This was just too comfortable.

"It will keep you from feeling like death in the morning," he said.

"I don't care," she mumbled.

"You will in the morning."

"I won't care. I'm thirty six years old , Sherlock. I look inside dead people for a living. I live alone in a flat with a cat and a gay man and my ovaries are shrivelling up and soon it will be too late to have any children. Not that I'm opposed to adoption. But who in their right mind would give someone who clearly does not have her life together a child? I mean, what kind of monsters would they be? Auntie Millicent was right. I will end up alone and old and they will find me dead in a chair with a half-knit scarf…and stacks of un-recycled newspapers…"

"I'm not gay."

"I'm a spinster Sherlock! I might as well embrace spinsterhood and move into a cottage in the country far away from civilisation so I won't scare the children. Who said you're gay?"

"You just did."

"You are a bit gay-ish."

"Gay-ish?"

"But that's fine…it's fine…it's all fine. I mean, it's a bit sexy."

"Sexy?"

"Sherlock, tell the room to stop spinning..."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Actually debated whether to keep the whole gay comment in there because I was concerned that it might offend someone. It's not meant to offend, my intention was for Molly to have come to terms with Sherlock not being attracted to her but in her inebriated state she wanted to know how Sherlock felt about sex, in general, because it IS a thing that comes up sometimes. I see Sherlock as grey A/pansexual (like me) and I've had similar conversations with people about my own 'thing'.


	3. Chapter 3

It was three in the afternoon when she woke up. She really hoped that her saying to Sherlock "You smell nice and your trousers are beautiful" had been a dream.

Sherlock's only comment on her indiscretion was "Champagne has a curious effect on you".

Perhaps leaving the next day for a one week holiday in Las Vegas saved her any further embarrassment. She seemed to remember reaching out to Sherlock and running her hand down his face, saying something about "It's like fierce marble!" – whatever that meant.

* * *

 

She'd left instructions with her neighbour for Toby – Sherlock had been surprisingly sweet, worrying about Toby's welfare – and extremely detailed ones at St. Bart's for Sherlock. He'd had taken the news of her holiday in stride – save for the comment "You'll have your mobile with you" and making her write down a day to day itinerary of places she was going to be. She'd tried to explain that Las Vegas wasn't the sort of town for daily itineraries.

Truth was that Las Vegas wasn't really her idea for a holiday destination. Her recently divorced, almost forty years old, cousin had begged Molly – bribed her with paying for her plane ticket – to go with her, saying something about their last hurrah. Molly had resisted – she really just wanted a quiet week in France, renting a small house near a vineyard and doing nothing but laze about – and the fact that her cousin had chosen her 'Because you're the only one who understands what it's like to be single at our age!' had her saying no until the very last minute. 

It was during a bit of turbulence on their way to there that Molly thought she really should get her life together at some point because she really wasn't this pathetic, was she?

* * *

 

There were four messages on her phone when they landed.

One from Sherlock – "Rusher won't do, please find someone else."

Three from John, obviously following-up for Sherlock - "Er…hi Molly, it's John. Uhm, as you can probably tell, Sherlock's having a bit of a tough time with Rusher. Erm, maybe there's someone else who can work with him – Sherlock – while you're away? Please call me."

"Hi, it's John again. Please speak to Rusher, he's quite upset. Obviously Sherlock's fault, but you know…please call me. Please."

"Where do you keep the chocolate? Please text."

* * *

 

When she finally got back she stumbled towards her bedroom, thinking she needed another week to recover from the ordeal of spending a week with her cousin. Toby snuggled up to her, a welcome warmth, and she drifted off to sleep happy to be home. She had a vivid dream of a log falling down beside her and she woke up with a start but seeing that it was still dark out – or was it dark out again? – she went back to sleep.

She panicked for a second the next time she woke when she didn't recognise the bed sheets. She thought that she was still in Las Vegas. But seeing Toby reassured her that this really was her bedroom and that she will never go back to Las Vegas ever again. However, the bed sheets were definitely not hers and the other side of the bed looked definitely slept in. It took her a few moments to make the connection but when it hit her, she laid there frozen, unable to really process it.

He wouldn't dare, would he? She found him in the sitting room, freshly showered judging by his wet hair, wearing silk pyjamas and that robe – his choice of leisure wear. He was going through a police report while eating a piece of toast. Her, in hindsight silly, belief that Sherlock didn't like food that much had been thoroughly shattered ages ago, as he seemed to be constantly snacking on things when around her.

"Have you been sleeping in my bed?" she croaked, her voice still rusty from sleep.

He didn't even bother to look up, "You weren't using it."

She glared at his head, "It's my bed."

He simply turned the page on the report, made a note on the pad next to him, "It's a very comfortable bed. More comfortable than the couch."

She put her hands on her hips, still glaring "It's _my_ bed."

_Still_ not looking, "We've established that, yes."

"Why?" she sounded surprisingly calm.

This time he did look up, "As I've said, you weren't using it."

"But it's my bed!" a little more force in her tone.

He turned back to his notes, "It's a very nice bed."

Why had she expected a normal conversation with the man? Wasn't she used to it by now? "Are you…I…you…did you buy new sheets?" she finally managed, walking over to her chair.

"Yes! They're great aren't they? Bought burgundy and marine ones as well. They were on sale." He looked genuinely excited by that.

"This is unacceptable, Sherlock…" she said, noticing a sock under the couch.

"What? Okay, yes, even at half price they were a bit expensive but consider it an investment."

"I have perfectly serviceable bed sheets, thank you very much and I cannot possibly stress it enough – it's _my_ bed, Sherlock. My. Bed. Mine. Whose bed is it? Mine. If you want to sleep in a bed then sleep at your own place. You know your own place? 221b? Yeah. There's a bed there, that's yours. There's a couch there too. My couch. My bed. My flat."

"I like the ones with the cherry blossoms the best…"

Toby meowed and jumped into her lap. She held him up in Sherlock's direction, "My cat!" Toby purred.

Sherlock cocked his head, "Did you have your hair cut?"

"Do not change the subject."

"It suits you."

She glared at him again, "Don't."

"It makes you look younger."

She rolled her eyes, "I give up."

Sherlock merely turned back to his notes. Molly leaned her head back in the chair, stroking Toby, watching Sherlock through half closed lids, thinking about the work waiting for her at the lab. Was it sad that she was glad to be back at work tomorrow?

"How much damage did you do with Rusher?" she asked after a while.

A frown line appeared between his brow, "John was exaggerating. He does that."

"You called him a brain dead monkey, Sherlock."

"He was being particularly stupid. Everyone knows that…"

"You know what? I don't want to know."

"I don't see why you have to go on holiday for so long."

"It was one week, Sherlock. And I'm not your personal lackey. I have a private life."

"You didn't even want to go to Las Vegas."

"Shut-up."

"Things just go more smoothly when you're around."

"Anyone else and I would've taken that as a compliment."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Nothing," she said and got up.

She needed coffee.

* * *

 

Her kitchen, as usual after Sherlock's been in it, was cluttered with things – bread slices, various cutlery, butter, an open jam pot, a half-eaten yogurt, cereal, cups and mugs. They had this discussion before. But any sort of normal flatmate discussions with him – maybe because he wasn't really a flatmate in the conventional sense – didn't do much really. She was in the middle of throwing away the yogurt, when something triggered in her mind.

"What do you mean you like the cherry blossoms ones the best? How long have you been sleeping in my bed?" she confronted him, the yogurt still in her hand.

"A few months…I thought you knew. You never objected."

"A few months?"

"Yes. When I put my back out after the Hyde Park chase..."

How had he been sleeping in her bed without her ever noticing?

"I only sleep in it when you have the day shift."

Seriously, how had she never noticed?

"We tend to keep to our sides of the bed."

"We have sides?"

"Yes. You clearly prefer the left."

"I do?" She'd never thought about it.

"Which is fortunate because I prefer the right."

"I thought you were okay with it…" he clearly looked surprised by her objections.

"That's because I didn't know…"

"It's just a bed, Molly…I don't understand why you're making such a fuss about it. John and I have shared a bed and he never complained."

Molly later asked John about that – "It was a bit weird at first and thankfully he does keep to his side most of the times but you'll learn that giving up on the smaller battles saves you energy for the bigger ones."

And then he added "Don't tell anyone about it."


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some brief smut at the end.

The definite upside of Sherlock 'living' with her was becoming close friends with John. What started out as commiserating over Sherlock's 'impossibleness' turned into a strong bond between the two.

"That's not a word, John" Molly jokingly said after his comment, trying to imitate the other man's baritone and John giggled in response, hence endearing himself to her forever. John was the older brother Molly always wished she'd had.

"It's really like living with a giant cat," she once said to him over coffee.

John had thought about that for a second, then grinned, "Yes, that's exactly it. Except for leaving hair all over, it's socks."

Molly knew what he meant, "I don't know what happens…I found one behind the toaster but that might have been Toby's doing."

"Oh no, I found one on top of the fridge once," John assured her.

By association, she also became friends with John's wife Mary. She thought of Sherlock as "That younger brother-in-law who's always doing something outrageous but you can't help but invite to Christmas dinners".

It was Mary who set her up with David – "He's a friend of a friend. A real sweetheart."

She was hesitant at first as he worked in an IT related field but Sherlock assured her, unprompted, that he wasn't gay nor criminally inclined – "Divorced, one child, bad relationship with ex".

So Molly accepted the date.

* * *

 

She couldn't remember the last time she'd been on one – maybe a year ago? It seemed longer. It didn't help that the older she got the less she felt the need to share her life with someone.  Of course, it also didn't help that the last person she'd thought was potentially 'the one' had turned out to be a homicidal psychopath. Still, she couldn't give up all hope.

David was attentive, intelligent, funny and made Molly feel completely at ease. Jim had been the first three, too, but the little niggle at the back of her mind had her always feeling slightly on edge around him. The coffee date turned into a dinner – or half a dinner, anyway. Sherlock had shown up suddenly, insisting that he needed her assistance with something. She ended up spending the rest of the evening crouched in an alley.

Luckily, the first aborted dinner turned into another, interrupted only by seven texts and one phone call from Sherlock.

On the third, David was the one who had to cut the evening short. Apparently an emergency at work – he developed security software for clients he 'could not disclose' to Molly. It turned out to be a false alarm later. T

he fourth date went off without a hitch. No texts or phone calls from Sherlock. No other emergencies.

By the fifth, Molly thought it was time they took it a little further. Sherlock would be out tonight – she made sure of that and had a body at the lab for back-up, just in case– so she didn't hesitate to invite David to her flat.

She hadn't considered the inconvenience of a man practically living at hers – and occasionally sleeping in her bed, although in a non-sexual fashion – until she started dating again. She'd tried to explain the situation with Sherlock – David had asked after the first dinner – but she didn't know how to and ended up saying "It's complicated". Thankfully, he'd left it at that. She supposed at some point, if she ever did want to be with someone in a romantic sense for the long term, she had to deal with Sherlock.

They were sitting on the couch when Molly decided to make the first move and kissed David. He responded immediately.

It felt nice, especially since she hadn't done this in a while, but Molly found herself pulling away after a while and saying goodnight. David looked disappointed. Molly didn't care.

* * *

 

"You kissed him," Sherlock later said. She didn't reply. "You're not seeing him again, are you?"

She ignored him, eating the dessert he'd brought home. That'd been unusual.

"Good. He wasn't right for you, anyway."

"And how would you know who's right for me?"

He didn't say anything for a while and Molly watched a news report about lootings in London.

"I…don't want you to settle because you're lonely," he finally said. She looked at him but he wasn't looking at her, his eyes firmly on the telly.

"I'm not lonely, Sherlock." She was amazed by the truth of her statement.

He turned his face and simply stared at her for a bit then turned his attention to his mobile.

Molly sighed.

* * *

 

It simply happened one night. Molly couldn't recall what had been so special then.

Maybe Sherlock had been extra bored, maybe her walking around half naked – London was having a heat wave in September– had some sort of effect on him. She suspected it was the former rather than the latter.

He'd ushered her into the shower right after – something about sweat and heat and cooling off – and managed to undo her thoroughly again.

Afterwards, as they lay in her bed – naked as it was just too hot to put any clothes on – Sherlock traced tiny circles on her stomach. She'd expected him to withdraw after the physical contact, so having him like this, in her bed, being almost affectionate was as unexpected as the initiated sex.

She didn't dare move, afraid to break the spell. Maybe she was delirious from the heat and all this was just in her imagination. His hand moved further down until he cupped her. She involuntarily pushed into the weight and he slid one long finger inside, while his thumb gently drummed on the little nub.

Molly's breath grew heavier as he continued, slowly and gently with his fingers, while he kept staring at her face. His scrutiny had always been her undoing and she could feel it build up inside of her, a wave, ready to crash and drown her and just as she was about to, he withdrew his hand.

Gasping at the sudden loss, Molly rolled over, on top of him, guiding him inside of her. He thrust deep , never taking his eyes off her and she pushed back greedily.

They didn't last long – a hissed "Yes!" from her, an "Oh god!" from him – and she collapsed on top of him, feeling his heart racing with hers.

They were too lazy to move after that, so she simply rolled off him and dozed off. When she woke later, Sherlock's face was buried in her nape, his arm loosely around her.

"I thought you weren't interested in sex…with anyone," she whispered sleepily.

"I never said I was opposed to it," he replied, his words vibrating down her spine.


	5. Chapter 5

Nothing really changed after that between them – except for the occasional sex.

While it added a layer of intimacy to their relationship – they went from reluctant flatmates to strange friends to friends with benefits – she wondered why the fluttery, bubbly feelings she normally had when becoming intimate with someone were absent. Maybe it was because at some point she'd decided that she couldn't handle romantic with Sherlock, that it wouldn't feel right? And she'd probably laugh in his face if he ever attempted anything of the kind.

However, it took her a while before she stopped questioning the sex and simply accepted it as part of their friendship or whatever-ship.

For someone who prior to sleeping with her had given her the impression that he was actually a little repulsed by the act, he was astonishingly good at it.

"Okay, you've definitely done that before," she once said, a little breathless, still tingling all over.

He'd smiled that little smug smile of his, "No, but I find the results highly satisfactory."

"That wasn't in the book, though," she'd replied.

He frowned briefly, "Well, it was a variation of page 47. I calibrated it a little, as the angle described wouldn't be optimal considering the movements involved."

"You calibrated it…" a small incredulous giggle escaped her.

"What?" he said and Molly was really tempted to give him a gentle, affectionate kiss. But that was not how they worked.

Instead, she mock-seriously said, "It's not very scientific though, is it? You merely assumed that your angle is far superior than the angle described."

"The results speak for themselves."

"No, they don't. While, yes, they are very satisfactory, you cannot scientifically claim them to be superior without comparing them to the results of the original."

"So you want us to do it the way it is described in the book, even though I know it will not lead to the same intense conclusion as my version has?"

"I like to have a bit of objectivity on these things. Besides, how can I fully appreciated your version, when I am not acquainted with the original?"

"Your arguments are valid but it would be a waste of time and I'd rather use it to attempt page 50."

"Page 50? Is this why you were so interested in my pilates class?"

* * *

 

It was Sherlock, surprisingly, who tried to have a discussion about the nature of their relationship.

"Molly," he said and had that look about him – that 'I'm really out of my depth here but I don't want you to know so I'm going to pretend that this isn't bothering me at all and if you so much as dare say a word about it I will never speak to you again.' She'd become really familiar with that look.

"Yes?" she said, hiding a smile.

He took a deep breath, "I… really… like… you and I've been…enjoying our…time together."

"Okay…" she said, encouragingly, wondering where this was going.

Deep breath again, "But… I…I don't want you to get the wrong…idea…"

She knew exactly where this was coming from. "John found out we're sleeping together."

An almost sheepish "Yes" was the reply.

"And I take it he doesn't approve?"

John had been embarrassed around her the last time they spoke, but she'd assumed it been Sherlock's fault – he'd made a comment about her and Mary's periods being synchronised.

"He…does…actually."

"Really?"

"But that's because he's a romantic sap when it comes to these things."

"Okay…" She had to agree with Sherlock on that. John could be incredibly sappy sometimes.

"He thinks I'm taking advantage of you."

And the man sure loved to meddle.

She raised an eyebrow, "Are you?"

Sherlock studied her face, "Do you think I'm taking advantage of you?"

She nodded, "Sometimes, yes."

"Sometimes?" Was that a brief flash of hurt on his face?

A corner of her mouth went up. "Yeah. Most of the time I let you."

A cocked eyebrow, slow sardonic tone "You… let…me?"

She laughed, "I'm perfectly aware that I'm a bit of a push-over when it comes to you and maybe it's also because no matter how much I try, I can't really help but like you."

"You like me." He looked so somber.

She shrugged her shoulders, "It's …fucked-up… I know."

"You…like…me." Just a hint of a smile on his face.

She sighed, "The unfortunate truth, yes."

* * *

 

She had a chat with John afterwards – she almost took pity on the man, he looked very uncomfortable.

"I know it's unconventional and it's hard to explain but..."

"I just don't want either one of you to get hurt…"

"I'm not sure I have the power to hurt him."

John grinned, "You'd be surprised."

"What do you mean?"

He gave her a funny look. "He chose you, Molly. He chose us."


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Next two chapters contain character deaths.

Sometimes, Molly felt like she was part of an elaborate science experiment conducted by Sherlock. Instead of mice and guinea pigs, he'd made her the test subject.

She wondered what he was testing for. When he looked at her in a certain way – as if trying to figure out something, matching whatever action of hers with a hypothesised result and realising he'd gotten it wrong – she was tempted to ask "So, what are the findings?"

One night, she finally asked the question that had been bothering her since the day she'd met Sherlock. "Why me?"

"What?" he asked, not stopping from his typing. He was updating his site.

"Mike said, afterwards, that you specifically asked for me…why?"

"Does it matter?"

"I want to know."

"Between you and Saunders, you were the more logical choice."

"Because I had a crush on you?"

"That was after the fact - a bonus, if you will. Made things easier."

"You know, I could kill you and make it look like an accident."

"You're clever enough to do that."

"I'll take as a compliment."

"That's why I chose you."

"My murdering skills?"

"No. Because you're clever. And you asked why."

"What?"

"When I asked you for the scrapings under Tufnell's toenails, you asked why. There was curiosity in the why. I liked that."

"Well, there didn't seem to be much point in it, really. Considering that police report said he was found dead in a bathtub. After comparing the water sample in his lungs with the one you collected, it was obvious."

"Coppers – always satisfied with the obvious answers."

"It's always zebras with you, isn't it?"

"What?"

"Did you leave that water sample on purpose?"

He smiled at her proudly, "I had to make sure that you were up for the job."

* * *

 

One night he asked her "Would you have slept with Jim if he'd asked you to?"

"What the hell kind of question is that?"

"It's a perfectly reasonable question."

"That was years ago…and does it really matter now?"

"I just want to know."

"I don't think he would have ever asked me…"

"You're probably right," Sherlock said, taking Toby off the counter. Then he grinned at her, "It's his loss, anyway."

* * *

 

Sometimes, it just felt cosy and right and whatever his motives were didn't matter because in that moment she was perfectly content.

* * *

 

A week after Molly's 39th birthday, a drunk driver hit Mary's car. She died on the way to hospital.

Sherlock was spouting off statistics on road accidents, while John was literally on the hospital floor sobbing, so Molly slapped him. She wouldn't regret it afterwards, only wishing that she hadn't hit him with such force, her palm was still stinging an hour after.

It'd shut Sherlock up and he retreated to a corner, as she knelt down to hold John. When she looked up to see Sherlock staring at his friend, she understood that he was probably the most ill-equipped person to deal with a situation like this.

It was Molly who suggested that John should move back to 221b. He had protested – shouted at her one night to leave him alone – but Molly couldn't bear to see her friend turn into a ghost inside a house that suddenly seemed too big.

It was a case – and she supposed it would always be that way – that finally changed his mind.

Strangely, it did not change her living arrangements very much. Sherlock still came over whenever he wanted, they still had sex. He was a creature of habit, as eccentric and strange and inconvenient as they were sometimes.

* * *

 

Once, after having a few drinks together, Molly asked John how it was living with Sherlock again.

"He's mellowed a little," he said, "At least he's keeping the edible and non-edible labelled now– I believe your doing?"

There'd been only one rule in all the years since Sherlock's invasion of her home that she insisted he had to keep. It started out with no body parts in the fridge, but that was like telling Toby not to bring small animals back home, so she amended the rule to making sure that he tagged his things appropriately – bringing home evidence bags and labels they used in the hospital probably helped with that because she'd caught him more than once almost gleefully labelling his experiments.

He really was a child sometimes.

* * *

 

Once, after Sherlock had said something incredibly cruel to her– he'd been irritated most of the day, a particularly baffling case troubling him – John actually smacked him on the back of his head and growled "Apologise."

Molly had simply been too stunned by this – judging by Sherlock's expression he was too – to react for the first few seconds.

But he did apologise. "Forgive me…you didn't deserve that…it's this case…"

Molly had given John a grateful smile, "I know he's an arse…"

* * *

 

There were days when Molly didn't recognise herself.

Well, she still had the mousy brown hair and the same brown eyes. The hair was decidedly shorter nowadays but still no major grey, the eyes had a few wrinkles – from laughing and maybe glaring at Sherlock, amongst other things.

But she _had_ become a different person on the inside. Well, not _entirely_ different. She still liked pink and kittens and fluffy things and had a weakness for a handsome face.

But she'd become more confident as a person – come comfortable in her own skin.

Living with Sherlock – and trying to keep some control over her own life – had taught her that. And if it was the only positive thing she could see in having Sherlock in her life – which it wasn't – it was good enough for her.


	7. Chapter 7

Then one day, Moriarty came into their lives again.

The name had lost a bit of its power over the years but the recent horrific deaths had resurrected the fear. And Sherlock became like a man possessed.

She had nightmares about the kind of things Moriarty would do to them. Sherlock allowed her to cry into his chest, his hand gently comforting her back.

"He just stood there and laughed as you burned," she said after the sobbing subsided.

"Shhh, sleep now," was all he said.

* * *

 

He changed after that – he'd started using drugs again.

Moriarty was consuming him and they didn't know what to do.

"You have to stop this, Sherlock."

"I need to stop _him_."

"You can barely..."

"I don't want you here."

"Sherlock...you can't..."

"You don't understand! You people don't understand! How can you understand? With your simple, silly, minds?"

* * *

 

They tried everything but in the end Moriarty won.

When news of their deaths reached her, she was standing in the hospital canteen ordering the pasta.

They told her that Sherlock's body hadn't been found but there was enough evidence to suggest that if they ever would, it would be in bits and pieces. 'Just like the ones he keeps at home,' a small voice in her head commented and she felt awful for smiling.

She asked to see Moriarty's autopsy report – Mycroft made the arrangements – and as she read the translated document, she found herself retreating into that objective, clinical place in her head that allowed her to do her job.

In the end, he was just like any other poor soul – or bastard more like – who ended up on Molly's table. Brain, heart, lungs, liver, kidneys, intestines – nothing unusual.

* * *

 

She travelled to Switzerland, needing to see the place where Sherlock had last been alive. As John showed her the spot, she couldn't help but think that the place looked too beautiful for anything so tragic to have happened there.

* * *

 

There was no funeral, the few who mourned Sherlock didn't need one.

* * *

 

And life moved on.

Sarah had drifted back into John's life and they started dating again, eventually moving in together.

Molly bought a bigger flat, adopted a new cat – Toby had passed away the previous winter – and she started to see a few people but nothing serious.

She was quietly promoted to department head.

* * *

 

Mycroft kept 221B and Molly had thought it an oddly sentimental gesture.

John and Molly met there sometimes, looking through stuff, laughing over socks they'd find.

* * *

 

There were many things she'd learned about Sherlock  - and from Sherlock - through all the years knowing him.

She'd learned that while he delighted in mentioning to people that he was a high-functioning sociopath, he was perfectly capable of human emotions. But the instances were too rare and being able to witness them such a privilege.

He could be genuinely kind and gentle and considerate and he had a soft spot for people in distress.

He would never admit to it – probably least of all himself – but he'd cared deeply for John.

"I think, in his exasperatingly own unique way, he loved you, John," Molly said late one night, during one of their get-togethers at 221B, lying on the couch – Sherlock's couch – a bit tipsy from the little extra they'd put in their teas.

John had tried to hide his smile but she caught the brief moment of delight on his face and was glad that she'd said it out loud.

"I think in his own Sherlockian way, he loved you too," John said, taking a sip from his cup.

She grinned at John, hoping it was true. He certainly had taught her to love herself.

"I think it was my couch. Mine was more comfortable. And Sherlockian isn't a word, John," she replied, trying to imitate the baritone they both knew so well.

"Well, it should be," John said, then giggled. She giggled too, enjoying the release.

She missed him – missed his quiet presence, his manic bursts, his commentary on everything, his surprising playfulness sometimes late at night – and she knew she'd never know any person as fascinating and who'd fascinate her more than Sherlock Holmes.

And she knew for all his ways, she had truly loved him.


	8. Epilogue

He simply turned up one day – a little grey at the temple, a small scar in the corner of his mouth.

He looked at her, with those clear piercing eyes and she wondered for the billionth time what he saw when he looked at her.

"Hello, Molly."

"Hello, Sherlock."

He smiled and it felt like the sun rising. Molly smiled back.

"Do you want to come in for a cup of coffee?"

 

-the end-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you very much for reading.


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